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“I will send her one.” Delilah inclined her head and left Cornelius to his correspondence. As she walked the halls of their small mansion, her mind flicked through her conversation with her husband. Delilah had been raised well. Her family was one of high standing and impeccable standards. She had rebelled against her family when she married Olezka, but her first husband had burned with a fire so bright, how was a female to resist him? His death had been more of a blessing though, as he did not hold the same beliefs that she shared now with Cornelius. She worried that Cord may harbour the same beliefs as his father, though if he did, he hid them well. But then her son was very adept at hiding his feelings. She smiled fondly as she thought of her sons. Sloane would be taught the right way, but he had been left in the Holt House for too long. It was time to bring him home and ensure he was taught the Ivanov way. Delilah had wished for his return many times.
Then Cornelius came up with the dreadful plan to wed Sloane to the harlot. Delilah had been furious. Of course, her dear sweet son had done his duty as his father bade. However, though Delilah had been silent on the betrothal, she would not be silent with respect tobreakingthe betrothal. The female could rut with the humans, and her son would be cleared of any shame.
As she ascended the curved staircase, she thought of Celeste’s daughter. Delilah disliked her immediately. She looked exactly like her mother and, worse, called a Vampyrefather. The complete audacity of the female. Cornelius had only seen the Heir who was of his House in the Northern Headquarters. He was blind to the details sometimes, which is why he benefitted from having her as his wife, she reminded herself.
A dress for the Vampyre and Lycan sympathiser. Delilah considered her options. Cornelius would frown if she sent the Elite Sentinel a jester’s outfit. As she entered her sewing room, she looked at the swathes of material, her eye falling on a black taffeta. Yes, that would suit her perfectly. Delilah began to hum to herself as she started cutting cloth despite the fact she was making a dress for an Akrhyn she did not like. You adapted to the circumstances, she reminded herself as she used her shears. You played the hand the Ancients gave you, and you smiled throughout.
* * *
“Prime Castor Rorik has done what?” Salem asked as he sat and looked at Marcus disbelievingly.
“He has called for a small and intimate gathering at the Prime Castor dwellings,” Marcus repeated to Salem.
“A party?” Salem said flatly.
“That is my interpretation of the invitation,” Marcus confirmed. He looked at Salem with barely concealed amusement. “Would you like me to run through the guest list?”
“No,” Salem answered briskly. “I do not understand the reasoning,” he admitted. “And the Great Council have agreed?”
“It seems to suggest that they have.”
“What are they thinking? There is a war happening on their doorsteps, and they want to eat canapés and drink champagne?”
“And it is black tie.”
“No,” Salem growled. “I am not convincing Tegan to put on another ball dress.”
“Delilah sent her one. Handmade.” Marcus returned Salem’s look. “I did not believe it either, but she has.”
“Did you check it for poison?” Salem muttered as he tapped his fingers together. Marcus huffed out a laugh, and the two of them sat for a moment in silence. “I am taking Bryce and a company of Elite Sentinels.”
“And you tell these Elite that Elite Sentinel Tegan gets to attend in a dress...how?”
“It will be easier to tell them than convince Tegan that she cannot wear fatigues.” Salem smiled slightly. “I still do not understand the reasoning on this.”
“We may find out at the gathering?”
“Have you heard that all Lycan have been removed from Carnain’s House?” Salem asked darkly.
“I have.” Marcus nodded. “First the Vampyres, and now the Lycan are slowly disappearing.”
“Has Tegan told you her theory on the Made here at Headquarters?” Salem asked his Second.
“She did, she told myself and Bryce.” Marcus stretched his legs out in front of him. “I fear she may have a sound argument.”
“I fear that too.” Salem looked at the invite on his desk that Marcus had laid down, and scanned the names of the invitees. “Well, I can ask this of the Great Council when I am eating my canapés and drinking champagne,” he said scornfully.
“How is Zahra?” Marcus asked quietly.
“She has not spoken of her ordeal yet, although I think Cord may have been right, I need to press her.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I hate with all my being what happened to her, Marcus, and the fact she was pregnant? How have I failed her so badly?”
“I do not think you can blame yourself so wholly, my friend,” Marcus advised him. “You have wilful children. Zahra made her own choices.”
“I think that is little comfort to her now,” Salem said quietly.
The door was knocked, and Michael entered the room. “A ball? Another ball?”
“You sound displeased, son.” Salem exchanged a wry smile with Marcus.
